


Closer Than Most

by Kittenshift17



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Death, Coma, F/M, Harems, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Reverse Harem, Rough Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22624699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kittenshift17/pseuds/Kittenshift17
Summary: With the Order desperate for a way to overthrow Voldemort after Ginny is killed & Harry & Ron are left comatose, Dumbledore invokes a new plan. Like the succubus, Morgana, Hermione must harvest the magical essence of the wizards around her. With eight powerful wizards frequenting her bed & sharing her magic, Hermione will find out what it's like to get a little closer than most
Relationships: Antonin Dolohov/Hermione Granger, Hermione Granger/Charlie Weasley, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Rabastan Lestrange, Hermione Granger/Remus Lupin, Hermione Granger/Severus Snape, Hermione Granger/Thorfinn Rowle, Luna Lovegood/Neville Longbottom/Original Male Character(s), Sirius Black/Hermione Granger
Comments: 201
Kudos: 728
Collections: The Death Eater Express





	1. Chapter 1

"WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS!?" Molly Weasley screeched from the kitchen of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, startling Hermione Jean Granger so badly that she slipped sideways out of her stool to sprawl on the floor, her book clutched tightly in one hand and her eyes wide with terror.

"There's really no need to shout, Molly," Professor Albus Dumbledore sighed, eyeing her disapprovingly.

"Hermione, are you alright?" Remus asked, leaning out of his chair and offering her a hand to get back to her feet.

"What's going on?" Hermione asked, frowning even as she took Remus's hand, letting him pull her up before she slipped back into her seat, glancing around at the apparently hostile participants in the discussion.

She'd been invited into the Order meeting this evening, but she hadn't been paying a lick of attention. Dumbledore had slipped her a book as he'd entered the kitchen, one about the uses of polyandric covens throughout the Middle Ages that focused more specifically on Morgana and her rise to power. She'd become immediately engrossed and had lost the thread of discussion carrying on around her.

"No need to shout?" Molly bristled. "Albus, SHE'S A CHILD!"

Hermione winced at the shriek that rent the air, surely doing damage to Molly's voice box. Her face was red, and the plump witch was on her feet, her face screwed up with concentration and hostility as she glared furiously at Professor Dumbledore. The woman looked ready to commit murder and Hermione frowned, never one to enjoy not knowing what was going on.

"You have to admit, Albus, it's a truly despicable idea," Professor Minerva spoke up, her expression shrewd and pinched, not at all pleased.

"She's of age and she is magically the most gifted witch born in Britain since either of you two delightful women," Dumbledore replied, unsettlingly calm in the face of the rage both women seemed intent on throwing at him.

"Thanks, Dumbles," Tonks grunted from the end of the table. "You really know how to make a girl feel appreciated."

"Begging your pardon, Nymphadora, but much of your power is harnessed by your ability to metamorph," Dumbledore smile kindly.

"Albus, she's just a girl," Arthur Weasley spoke up and Hermione blinked, shocked to see Arthur disagreeing with the Headmaster.

"She's of age," Dumbledore repeated.

"BARELY!" Molly exploded again. "IF YOU THINK I'M GOING TO LET YOU SACRIFICE THAT GIRL OR HER VRTUE FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR TWISTED ENDEAVOUR TO OVERTHROW VOLDEMORT, YOU CAN JUST THINK AGAIN!"

"Bloody hell, she doesn't even shout at us at _that_ pitch," Fred Weasley muttered to his twin on Hermione's other side, his face paling and making his freckles stand out when faced with his mother in such a fury. Hermione supposed he had a point. She'd never seen Molly so livid. Not when they'd tried to expel Harry. Not when Fleur had fallen for Bill. Not even when Fred and George had dropped out of school.

"What's she so angry about?" Hermione asked of Remus, leaning toward the werewolf sitting on her left, tucking her book away onto her lap for continued perusal later.

"You don't have a choice, Molly," Dumbledore informed her. "It's not a decision for you to make."

"Dumbledore's got a twisted idea about how to better harness the power of the Order for the sake of taking down Voldemort," Remus muttered to her, glancing at her out the corner of her eyes before his cheeks cut red.

Hermione felt a sense of bone-chilling dread crawl down her spine. She glanced at the book upon her lap before looking up as Molly pointed a threatening finger at Dumbledore, just daring him to push the issue. Most of the male members of the Order were avoiding eye contact with her.

"You think a nineteen-year-old girl has the maturity to understand what something like this would do to her?" Molly challenged. "You and I both know what kind of sacrifice you would be asking for, instigating such a thing. What's worse is that you _know_ that if it's you who does the asking, she'll agree to it because it's all for the Greater Good, spun into a pretty web of bravery, purpose, and a sense of helpfulness should such a thing actually work. But what of her reputation, Albus? What of her future? What of the effect such a thing would have on her body? On her magical core? Are _you_ going to be there when she ends up pregnant out of wedlock and has no idea who the father is? Are _you_ going to hold her when she cries because the entire wizarding population calls her a villainous snake? A tart? A treacherous vixen? When they call her a whore, are _you_ going to assure her that it's alright, it was all for the Great Good?"

Hermione felt the colour drain from her face and she blinked when from across the table, Sirius Black lifted his head, his stormy grey eyes holding hers steadily. His mouth was set in a grim line, his eyes assessing her reaction; her stance; her body. Hermione felt her stomach twist uncomfortably as she looked away, the book on her lap suddenly feeling not like an engaging tool for learning, but a prison sentence.

"Do you have another option to offer, Molly?" Dumbledore asked mildly. "How many more Order members must we lose before you see that Tom is winning this war? How many becomes too many before we take action and strike back?"

"And just who do you propose would be helping me 'strike back'?" Hermione asked, her voice whipping out over the din of the arguing members, stilling everyone's tongues instantly.

Hermione rose to her feet, setting the book Dumbledore had given her on the table and lifting her brown eyes to level a stern glare at the Headmaster of Hogwarts. He looked away from Molly and her condemning finger to meet Hermione's gaze.

"That choice would be yours, Miss Granger," he answered evenly.

Hermione snorted.

"If that's not a cop out, then I don't know what is," she snapped, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't know if you've noticed, Professor, but the lads don't exactly flock to my door begging for my attention. How do you propose I go about luring men to my bed for the sake of harvesting their magical power when I can't even get horny teenage boys to look sideways at me? Maybe you've imagined some silly fantasy or believed the lies Rita Skeeter likes to publish about me in the _Daily Prophet,_ but I assure you that the only person putting their hands up my skirt is me when I'm trying to fish out my wedgie."

George snorted on a laugh, trying to cover it with a cough, and Hermione almost glanced at the twins, knowing they'd be desperately trying to choke back their laughter and failing miserably.

"And so, I'm wondering, sir, how we might enact your little plan to whore me for the Greater Good when no one's stuck their hand up to volunteer at crawling between my thighs?" Hermione went on, knowing she sounded crass and blunt and more than a little waspish, but unable to conceal her fury that the man would suggest such a thing for her.

It wasn't that she was a prude, or that she didn't like sex, she'd simply not had a lot of offers. The sound of someone clearing their throat from across the table drew her glare and Hermione sighed when Viktor Krum raised his eyebrows at her, his lips pursed and his expression a challenge.

"Right. Yes," Hermione muttered. "We were dumb kids and it was a long time ago, and you're _married_ to someone else now, so don't give me that look. My point is that no one _else_ has been trying to get into my knickers, and forgive me, but they're not going to start now."

Viktor's lips twitched on a smile at her annoyance, always too happy to remind her what they'd had.

"Now, to be fair," Fred spoke up from beside her and Hermione turned to him, eyebrows raised. "George and I have been trying to talk our way into your knickers for years, love. You just keep rolling your eyes at our offers."

"You mean your offers when you've had a few pints and you sling your arm around me and try to insist what laugh it would be if I fell into bed with both of you. Usually when I'm reading something, and you've already hit on every other witch in the room?" Hermione challenged.

"Oi," George protested. "It takes a bit of liquid courage and some bloody big bollocks to risk asking you out, Hermione."

Hermione put her hands on her hips, her eyes darting between the twins, waiting for the punchline. When none was immediately apparent, she frowned.

Someone else coughed and Hermione turned her eyes to glare at Sirius, who was doing a poor job of hiding his smirk.

"I _did_ warn you that you're a tad unapproachable, Treasure," he told her in an oh-so-annoying I-told-you-so tone. "Of course, you ignored me and went back to your book."

"Sirius Black, I did _not_ just hear you admitting to flirting with or attempting to seduce Miss Granger," Minerva McGonagall hissed, narrowing her eyes dangerously.

Sirius avoided her eyes.

Hermione turned her attention back to Dumbledore. "Apparent cowardice on behalf of any who _might_ have shown an interest aside, I hardly think you mean to suggest that I just go hopping into bed with people. I do have a little dignity."

"Too much, if you ask me," Sirius muttered from across the table before taking a swig of his whiskey.

"And I don't think I need to point out that not only would engaging this idea label me a trollop, it would be short lived. No one wants to ride the broom everyone's had a go of. Especially when they _know_ they're being used."

"Exactly," Molly harrumphed, crossing her arms over her ample bosom.

"How much of that book have you currently read, Miss Granger?" Professor Dumbledore asked her, nodding at the book he'd given her. The one about the effects of polyandry on a witch's magical core.

"Enough to know why you're making the suggestion," Hermione replied curtly. "And enough to know that unlike Morgana, I'm not bent on overcoming my enemies via nefarious means."

"Nothing nefarious about getting laid, Treasure," Sirius grunted, and Hermione glared at him.

"Have you commenced chapter fifteen?" Dumbledore asked, and Hermione frowned.

"Not yet," she confessed.

"Read it now, if you wouldn't mind, Miss Granger."

Hermione narrowed her eyes before picking up the book. She flipped to the correct pages and began to read, noting the complete silence around the table. Everyone seemed to be silently waiting and Hermione scanned the passage with her eyes, frowning as she read. It was apparently a section taken directly from a diary or writing by Morgana herself.

_Perhaps the most useful side-effect of this type of coupling is the release of tension and the service it provides to those among my throng. The rush of sex itself is, naturally, delightful, but there is more to it. I have seen within each member of my throng that there is something inside of them that unknots as a result of our coupling. In the beginning, I thought merely that the rush of magic and power was as we've always expected sex to induce; a release of pent up energy. Now, I think it is more than that._

_Throughout the coupling, as I harvest the energy and feel it unlocking parts of my own magical core that I surely could never have dreamed of unlocking alone, there is something to their release that feels profound. They grow more powerful, too. I feel it in the amount of magic I am able to harvest with each coupling. As they give unto me, I unlock in them the same power. It worries me, for I fear that if they knew their own growing power they would surely seek to claim the power for themselves. They come to me willingly, and they support my cause, but there can be no denying that as all beings surely do, they seek power. Knowing that I am giving it to them, and that they are bound to me is both a relief and a bother._

_Soon, I am certain, I will have harvested enough to bring about the climax of my campaign. I can feel it thickening in my blood and I can taste it on my tongue. I taste their power, too, as it grows. They grow closer, it seems. In the beginning many resented the idea of sharing me, but now, despite not often joining in group sex, they seem more at peace with one another. Perhaps it is the bond binding them to me in this quest. Perhaps it is some magical link, the likes of which will surely bring about my rule. I know not._

Hermione looked up at Dumbledore.

"Your point of that would be…what, exactly?" she asked, her eyes narrowing. In her opinion, the Order tended to get along well enough on their own. She doubted that having a number of them all shagging her silly would somehow bring them closer. Outside of comparing notes and gossiping over whatever undignified thing she might do in the throes of passion, anyway.

"Camaraderie is important, Miss Granger," Dumbledore said softly. "It also suggests an ability to sway certain individuals from one master, to focus more fully on something more rewarding."

Hermione dropped the book, listening to it snap shut while her eyes went wide.

"Albus, if you're implying…" Minerva began heatedly but Dumbledore held up his hands, stilling her tongue. His eyes never left Hermione's and she knew without a doubt what it was he wanted.

"What if it didn't work?" she asked. "You undoubtedly know the effects the ritual would have. On all participants. Luring loyal Death Eaters from Voldemort's side would be hard enough. What would you do if they took the boon of power and returned to their master all the stronger?"

"You didn't read the entire passage," Dumbledore said softly.

"Luring Death Eaters?" Molly hissed, her face paling. "Albus, no! I drew the line at members of the Order. You cannot ask _anyone_ to lie down with Death Eaters, no matter the cause."

"The ritual is binding?" Hermione guessed, raising her eyebrows, her hands beginning to shake. Both she and Dumbledore ignoring Molly for the time being, staring at one another. "But I… there would be no way to undo…. And then they'd be…."

Dumbledore nodded slowly.

"With the combination of the power it would bring to the Order, in addition to depriving Tom his subjects, he would finally be overcome," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles.

Hermione felt ill at the thought of what he was suggesting she do in order to bring about such an outcome. Death Eaters. He expected her to shag Death Eaters. It was inconceivable. It was horrible. She didn't think she could even manage with the idea of shagging certain Order members. There were just some things that she'd never imagined herself doing, and shagging a Death Eater was pretty high on that list. If she was honest, she hadn't really envisioned herself shagging anyone. Not since…. Hermione shook her head to clear it before the painful thoughts could set in.

"So much for it being my choice," Hermione muttered, sinking slowly into her seat while every eye of the gathered members remained fixed upon her, watching her for her reaction. She wondered how Dumbledore had pitched the idea to them all that thus far only Molly, Arthur and Minerva had objected. She wondered what he'd said, knowing from the look on Arthur's face, and the slightly pained one on Minerva's, that it must've been convincing. The three of them had only objected out of love for her, she could tell. All three of them loved her like they were her very own parents, she knew that, and she was grateful. But Hermione could see upon even their faces that for all their objections over her dignity, her honour, and her safety and wellbeing they, too, could see the appeal of Dumbledore's plan.

Having read even just the first few chapters of the book that the crafty old wizard had given her, Hermione could see the merit of the idea. The rituals involved in achieving such a thing were difficult and binding, not to mention dangerous, but the amount of power she would harness would likely be enough to bring down Voldemort, prophecies be damned. But was the cost too much? She might personally gain an incredible amount of magical power, but she would do it by leeching some of the power from the men she shagged. It wasn't an easy process. Some small amount of magic and energy was transferred during any sexual contact, naturally, but this would be more than that.

Like a succubus right off the pages of her Magical Creatures books, she would leech the magical energy of her bed-partners and wield the resulting power as she saw fit. The catch was that doing so was dark magic, and that one had to create a bond with the partner in order for it to work. Anyone she considered this idea with would be bound to her, and her to him, as surely as anyone was bound in marriage or by blood.

"Albus, she's a child. Powerful or not, Hermione is a child. You can't ask this type of sacrifice of her. The effect on her magical core, alone, is enough reason not to consider it. Forming that kind of bond with one person in marriage is dangerous enough, to consider it with multiple partners _without_ the protective enchantments of a marriage ceremony could kill her!" Molly protested once more.

Hermione felt the way Remus shifted slightly in his chair beside her almost as though he meant to put his hand on her shoulder in silent support before he thought better of it, his hand twitching on the table before he stilled once more. Her mind was racing as she listened to Molly trying to talk Professor Dumbledore out of this idea. A treacherous part of her wondered if the woman wasn't somehow hanging onto the notion that if she remained unattached and untouched long enough, it might somehow bring Ginny back, or rouse Ron and Harry from their cursed and unconscious states.

The thought of Harry, Ron, and Ginny lanced her heart and Hermione's fists clenched. She ached with the pain of missing them, and she suffered daily knowing that neither Ron, nor Harry, would sit idly by, as she did, were their places reversed. She'd done all she could to research the curses that affected both boys, and she'd done what she could to heal them, but some things were beyond the ability to heal and only the magical strength of each boy would save him.

Not that they'd wake to a happily ever after with Ginny gone. It had been a bad year, Hermione supposed, her nails biting into her palms and leaving half-crescents. The quest to claim the Horcruxes had cost them more dearly than they could ever have dreamed and Hermione knew that much of Molly's protectiveness stemmed from a failure to protect her only daughter and her youngest son from the terrible fates that had befallen them.

"I stopped being a child when I got my Hogwarts letter, Mrs Weasley," she said quietly before the woman could continue and end up breaking down in tears once more over things she couldn't change. "This isn't a question of relative maturity or of the appropriateness of the notion. This is… Professor Dumbledore while I'm certain you don't comprehend the gravity of your request, I'm wondering if you've looked past the potential benefits to see the drawbacks. This would be a big ask of the Order members even before considering the notion of using this to sway Death Eaters, too. And you're not just asking me, you know? You're asking many of the wizards in this room to contribute to this idea, too. They would have to have sex with me in order for this plan to work and, as I've mentioned, there's been little interest from most of them up until now. But let's set that aside for a moment to examine the less appealing side of this request. You want me to shag Death Eaters. You somehow expect that men who are so entrenched in blood supremacy that they joined up with a megalomaniac to persecute us, will inexplicably turn on their Dark Lord for the sake of one little mudblood."

"Don't use that term," several people around the table hissed and Hermione scoffed.

"You can't even stand to stomach the term they use to describe people like me and you think they're going to want to touch me? To crawl between my legs and do unspeakable things to me?" Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please. I'm sorry, Professor, I've read enough of the book to understand why you thought this would be feasible in theory, but in practice your asking men who think I'm a boring, frumpy bookworm and men who think I'm a wretched, dirty mudblood to bind themselves to me and shag me on a regular basis. It's not going to happen."

"Just as you might consider doing this for the greater good, others might too, Miss Granger," Albus Dumbledore said quietly. "A good many people in this world do things they might ordinarily not enjoy for the sake of something bigger than themselves."

"Albus, she doesn't want to do it and I don't blame her," Augusta Longbottom spoke up. "The poor girl has already been through enough, don't you think? Cursed and almost killed in her fifth year by a Death Eater; fighting a war in the corridors of Hogwarts in her sixth and on the run from the Ministry and the Death Eaters in her seventh year. To make matters worse she's endured the death of a girl as close to a sister as she's ever had, and the aching loss of her two closest friends comatose and cursed for months, still unresponsive. She's sacrificed her parent's memories and a good deal of her own blood and bone to this cause already. Do not ask the girl for her virtue, and do _not_ try to guilt her into agreeing just because there are others who've sacrificed more."

Hermione smiled ruefully at the stern woman that Neville called 'Gran'. She was certainly an impressive and powerful witch, Hermione could tell. Neville's lips twitched where he sat next to his grandmother and Hermione's eyes met his when he lifted his head. He held her gaze steadily, no longer the stammering, forgetful lump of a boy she'd helped in class when he was too scared of Professor Snape to concentrate. He'd grown lean over the past few months, having been right there alongside her, Harry, Ron, Ginny and Luna when they'd been hunting Horcruxes. He'd been there holding her while Ginny died in Hermione's arms and he'd been there to help her get Harry and Ron back to the Order, back someplace safe.

He'd been her rock and he'd grown from friend who relied on her for help with his homework, to close friend whom she'd entrust with her life in a heartbeat.

"Harry and Ron would be screaming bloody murder if they could hear this discussion," she told him softly, ignoring everyone else for the moment, speaking directly to Neville.

"They would," he agreed, one corner of his mouth pulling upward. "Might be, if you go through with it, that they'll snap out of their comas just to screech at you."

Hermione's chest tightened, and her eyes stung with the urge to cry all over again.

"You know what Ginny would say?" she asked softly.

Neville's smile grew rueful and he shrugged.

"She'd be shouting whilst being frog-marched from the room," Hermione told the boy. "Thinking about passing up the chance to shag a whole swath of wizards and getting away with it for the sake of the Greater Good? She'd be calling me three kinds of stupid for a smart girl."

Neville snorted, and Fred chuckled softly beside her. Molly's indrawn breath was shaky, and Hermione knew the mention of her daughter and the accurate projection of what she'd likely have said, were she there, had silenced any more of her protests.

"She'd be asking for pictures," Luna's soft-spoken and slightly dreamy voice came from beside Neville and Hermione met the blonde girl's gaze. She wore a little smile, her eyes distant. "She'd be telling you to stop hesitating and commanding that you get her pictures to giggle over and drool over whilst asking for explicit details. And you'd be blushing and stammering and telling her it was none of her business, which would only make her tease you all the more."

A tear trickled down Hermione's cheek as she nodded, recalling the way Ginny had teased her mercilessly about Viktor when she'd been shagging him. Molly turned her face into Arthur's chest when her tears spilled over, and around the table everyone looked rueful as they recalled the vivacious young woman who'd sacrificed her life for the cause.

She knew in her heart that she was going to do it. What was her dignity, her pride, or her reputation compared to the sacrifice of Ginny's life?

"Who did you have in mind, Professor Dumbledore?" Hermione asked, turning her gaze back to the man who led the Order with a cunning that most people underestimated.

"Would you like a list of those I think would be most beneficial?" he asked seriously, raising his eyebrows.

Hermione nodded.

"You're going to do it, then?" Sirius asked from across the table.

Hermione shrugged, getting to her feet and picking up the book Dumbledore had given her.

"I'm going to think about it," she said. "And study how it works. And consider whether it's madness or brilliance."

"The two often go hand in hand," Luna said quietly.

She pushed away from the table and strode around the people gathered in their chairs. When she reached Dumbledore, she held out her hand expectantly, awaiting a list of those he thought she should be shagging for the sake of creating a harem for herself.

"Actually, I rather meant to introduce you to those whom I…." Dumbledore began, handing her a rolled-up scroll of parchment that glowed for a moment, his own magic creating the list without quills or ink.

Hermione didn't wait for him to finish. She couldn't. The longer she stayed the more she was going to feel pressured to do it for the sake of the Order and the harder it would be to say no. She didn't want to agree if she didn't think she could handle shagging those he hoped she'd shag and she didn't want to listen to Molly crying anymore, the woman's tears always setting off her own grief.

She took the scroll and she strode for the door, her wand in one hand, the book under her arm, and the parchment in the other. She used magic to unlock the door, though why they bothered warding it when everyone was inside the kitchen for the meeting was beyond Hermione. There weren't any children to be kept out of the meeting anymore.

She was halfway into the entrance hall before she realised that she wasn't alone and Hermione's wand arm snapped to attention, her body dropping into a duelling stance instinctively when she found herself surrounded by Death Eaters.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Dashes into the room in Wellingtons, carting an umbrella, hair damp*
> 
> *grins from ear to ear, wet all over from jumping in puddles*
> 
> *presents the chapter to you, giggling*
> 
> *gives you all a big, wet hug*
> 
> *Flutters come-hither eyes at you enticingly*
> 
> *dashes back out into the rain and high jumps right into a huge puddle, cackling with glee*
> 
> xx-Kitten.

"How did you get in here?" she snarled, her eyes darting over the faces surrounding her.

Five pairs of eyes blinked at her and five wands were trained on her dangerously. The scraping of chairs and the shouts of the Order as they rushed to her aide almost drowned out the reply.

"Miss Granger," Snape growled, his eyes narrowed on her. "Lower your wand. Now. They are here by invitation."

"Cruel of you to 'invite' them to their own demise," Hermione replied, flicking a hex at the dark haired and bearded Russian wizard levelling her a cold look from across the room.

He was quick with his shield, but Hermione was quick with her hexes, too.

"Enough!" Dumbledore commanded, and Hermione bared her teeth like a cornered animal when her wand sailed out of her grip to be deftly caught by the Headmaster.

"What's going on here?" Neville demanded, having apparently jumped the table to be one of the first ones at her back and ready to fight alongside her.

The door to the meeting room slammed closed in his face and Dumbledore warded it, shocking Hermione mute for a long moment. Neville banged on the door from the other side and Hermione raised her eyebrows at Dumbledore, backing away from the gathered Death Eaters filling the Entrance Hall of Grimmauld Place.

" _You_ invited them?" she asked, and she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach when he patiently waited for her to connect the dots, looking pointedly at the list he'd given her.

Hermione paled, feeling like she might be sick.

Around the room, the gathered Death Eaters watched her, and Hermione shook her head slowly in denial. She recognised the five men before her. How could she not? All five had their faces on Wanted posters at this stage. One had been her classmate, another the boy who'd mercilessly tormented her during her first year after she'd tattled on him for being inappropriate in the library. One was her former Potions and Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher and generally a man who unsettled her. A fourth was a man whom she knew by reputation only, but there could be no mistaking his regal features and vibrant green eyes. The fifth man in the room had tried to kill her and Hermione thought she might actually be sick.

"No," she said slowly, shaking her head, her eyes darting back to Dumbledore. She clutched her book tighter, loathe to be without her wand even if Dumbledore now stood between her and her enemies.

"I had meant to discuss this matter with you in further detail, Hermione," Dumbledore said gently, holding her wand out to her when her hand twitched for a weapon. "Preferably in private."

"Then why are _they_ doing here?"

"That's hardly polite," a green eyed Rabastan Lestrange sneered.

Hermione threw a hex at him in reply. He blocked it, smirking and Hermione bared her teeth again.

"If you continue to hex these men when they are here by my invitation and under my protection, Miss Granger, I will relieve you of your wand again until you have calmed yourself."

"Calmed myself?" Hermione repeated, outraged. "Why don't I line up a whole bunch of people who want to kill you and then tell you to smile pretty while they fuck you, _Professor_?! Why don't we see how calm you feel then?"

Thorfinn Rowle snorted and Hermione narrowed her eyes on the hulking Viking hatefully.

"Well, if the little goody-two-shoes didn't grow up and learn to cuss," he drawled.

"Eat me, Rowle," Hermione retorted.

"Careful," he warned. "I'm partial to brunettes."

"I'm not doing this," Hermione told Dumbledore. "You can forget it. Wipe their memories or kill them if you have to, but get them out of here before I return all the favours they've paid me over the years."

"I told you she would take this for an ambush, Albus," Snape drawled, and Hermione shivered at the sound of his voice.

"Severus, now is not the time. Perhaps we should continue this discussion upstairs, Hermione?"

"What? Afraid the Order will break out of the kitchen and murder them before I get the chance?" Hermione asked, raising her eyebrows in challenge. "I'm not going to do it, Dumbledore. You can forget it."

"Nice to see you too, Granger," Draco Malfoy drawled.

"Lick Bubotuber pus, Malfoy," Hermione snapped.

"Oooh, not very friendly," he smirked, apparently amused.

Hermione lost her temper. He'd always been good at making her do so, and without pausing to consider her actions Hermione pulled a Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder bomb from her pocket and threw it on the floor. The room was engulfed in darkness and Hermione made a break for it. She raced across the entrance hall, grunting when she slammed into a solid and muscular form that had to belong to Rowle before shoving away from him and running for the door.

These days she always knew the ways to the exits and the obstacles to exiting any room, and she always carried weapons and gadgets that might help her make an escape. It was paranoia and she knew it, but right then she was thankful for it. She didn't really think of a destination, she just ran. Out the door, she Disapparated from the top step with a sharp crack.

**~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~**

"No one mentioned that this plan would involve Potter's Mudblood," Antonin Dolohov complained when the darkness began to clear, the girl long gone.

"No one mentioned fucking her, either," Rowle said.

"As though you object to sticking your cock wherever you can?" Rabastan scoffed.

"I would appreciate it if you all refrained from using the term 'mudblood'," Albus Dumbledore said.

"Yeah, good luck with that, old man," Antonin muttered.

"I told you she wouldn't take it well," Severus said and Albus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and slanting a glare at Severus. He refused to look repentant for the comment.

"You want us to shag Granger, sir?" Draco Malfoy asked of him. "I think I'd rather take my chances with the Dark Lord."

"Yeah, 'cause that's been going _so_ well," Thorfinn Rowle grunted.

"Fuck off, Thorfinn," Draco glared at the other blond wizard in the room.

"Don't you two start at one another again," Antonin sighed. "Explain to me why we are here, Dumbledore. Why the Mud… Why Granger?"

"She's the most powerful," Severus answered before Albus could open his mouth.

"Is this supposed to be some sort of… what? Reverse harem thing? Like what the Dark Lord tried to get Bella doing?" Rabastan asked. "Only we fuck the Mudblood?"

"I'd rather fuck Bella," Antonin muttered.

"Enough!" Dumbledore snapped. "Severus, if you would be so kind as to take our friends to the safe-house while I see about having a discussion with Miss Granger, I would appreciate it."

"She's not here, Albus," Severus drawled. "Didn't you hear the crack? She ran out the front door and Disapparated."

Albus sighed, feeling a headache beginning to niggle behind his eyes. Young people were so impossibly impulsive and disobedient. And Miss Granger might be the worst. A surprise to him, since he'd thought dealing with Harry had been difficult enough. But the girl was clearly smarter than Harry and knew when to argue back and knew the right questions to ask when she was given a directive. She didn't just rush in full tilt because he said it would help them win.

Apparently, she was less Gryffindor and more Slytherin than he'd anticipated, but that was no matter.

"Why are we here?" Rowle wanted to know. "Is that your master plan for taking down the Dark Lord? A muggleborn witch slight enough that she'd probably lose in a fight against a wet paper bag? She might have a decent head on her shoulders, and she's quick with that wand, but she's tiny, Dumbledore. The Dark Lord has been implementing this same idea with Bella and of the two, I know who'll win in a fight."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Draco spoke up, his hand reaching to touch his nose. "She can swing a decent punch."

"Beating you in a fight would be easier than fighting off a pygmy puff, Malfoy," Rowle taunted.

_Children_ , Albus decided when the Malfoy boy made a rude hand gesture. They were all just children. Maybe Molly was right. Maybe there was a better way, one that relied on less people. Maybe he could just go up against Tom and kill the wretch himself like he should've done when he was still a cruel boy rather than a psychotic and cruel man. Albus was tired. They were losing and with Harry out of commission they needed a new plan. He'd hoped the Granger girl would cooperate willingly, as Harry tended to do, and he was annoyed that she'd run away.

"Got to admit, if this bunch of fuckers were coming at me, cocks out, I'd have run for it too," Lestrange offered his commentary on Miss Granger's actions.

"You want us all to fuck her, right?" Dolohov asked. "Who else? Who from among the order?"

"That's not important right now," Albus hedged. "Unless Miss Granger can be located and convinced that this is a sound plan, none of your services will be required."

"For fuck's sake, Albus, don't refer to it as 'services'," Severus hissed. "We're not stud stallions."

"Speak for yourself, Snape," Rowle smirked and Albus decided that he'd had enough for one day.

"Out!" he snapped. "Now. All of you, get out. Severus, take them to the safe-house. I'll be along shortly. After locating Miss Granger and talking some sense into her."

"As though you've any idea where she'll go?" Severus sneered.

"I will ask her friends." Albus snapped.

"Won't be too easy, since one of them is dead and the other two are comatose," Severus spat and Albus fought the very real urge to hex the spiteful man.

"Whose fault is that?" he retorted, and Severus's eyes flashed with hatred.

The other Death Eaters, seeming to realise that there was an ocean of tension between the two powerful wizards all fell silent and their Slytherin tendencies were obvious to Albus as he watched them all assessing the situation carefully.

Without a word Severus threw his arm out and darted a glance at his fellow Death Eaters. They didn't speak as they all moved forward to grasp his arm and Severus disapparated all of them at once, leaving Albus alone in the entrance hall for a long moment.

Waving his wand after taking a deep breath, Albus unlocked the door to the kitchen and Neville Longbottom burst through it. His wand was drawn, and his eyes were wild.

"Where's Hermione?" he demanded immediately and Albus recognised the difference between the young man he'd become compared to the boy he'd once been.

"I was hoping you might be able to tell me," Albus replied quietly. "She left. A new development regarding the plan was a little too much for her, too soon, and she left."

"Right," Neville muttered.

"You invited those fuckers here?" Sirius Black asked, his voice low and dangerous as he followed Neville into the entrance hall. "All of them?"

Albus nodded. He had briefed Sirius and Remus on the plan before unveiling it to the rest of the Order, since their participation was vital.

"No wonder she ran," Sirius muttered. "You can't just ambush the poor girl, Albus!"

Albus might've smiled at the similarity between Sirius's and Severus's words were he in a better mood.

"Neville, where would she go to be alone and collect her thoughts?"

"Did you check the library?" he asked, frowning.

"She disapparated after dropping an Instant Powder bomb," Albus supplied.

"Right… well, if she's not in the house…" He frowned for a long moment and glanced at Luna when the young witch came up beside him, slipping her hand inside his.

"We won't find her," Luna said. "She's always been private. If she's left the house, she'll have gone somewhere none of us can follow."

"You don't have an agreed upon place to meet if things go wrong?" Remus asked quietly.

"We do," Neville nodded. "But she won't be there. That's the first place we'd look."

"Check, just the same, please," Albus said. "It's vital that I speak with her."

"You can't force her into this, Albus," Molly said, having recovered from her tears enough to speak.

"I have no intention of forcing her," Albus replied evenly.

"We'll check the meeting point," Neville said, still holding Luna's hand. "We'll be back shortly."

**~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~**

Hermione climbed in the window of the fall-down cottage deep in the woods. It had been her grandmother's once, long ago, before she'd died. Her parents had kept it, rather than selling it off, and they'd spent a few weeks here every summer when Hermione had come home from school.

Without their memories, her parents no longer recalled its existence and Hermione didn't get there often enough to take decent care of it. The door was jammed shut and magic hadn't budged it, and so she was climbing in the window. Little more than a hovel, the roof sagged and the paint had long since peeled off. It'd been well-cared for, once, but now it was sad and creepy. As a girl, when Gran had still been alive, Hermione had thought the place spooky. Covered in vines and nestled amongst the trees, it was easy to miss. The drive to the place had long since grown over, though it had never been more than a faint track winding through the trees.

Now, it was beyond creepy. It looked like the residence of the wicked witch who might eat unsuspecting children that wandered too close, and the irony of her own witchcraft was not lost on her.

Inside the cottage it was dark, but a flick of her wand lit some candles and another brightened the hearth. The dust was thick in the air and Hermione coughed, frowning to herself as she took in the state of the place.

The door hadn't budged, it seemed, because a large branch had fallen through the roof and was pinning it closed. Using her wand, Hermione levitated the wretched thing free and she set to work on tidying the house, cleaning the mess left by countless storms, drying the floor, and repairing the roof. When that was done she used more charms to alleviate the damp smell that lingered in the air and she made a face when she discovered that at some stage a weasel had tried to make a home of the oven.

When it was habitable, and the furniture was all clean, Hermione settled herself onto the couch in front of the fire and stared at the book Dumbledore had given her.

"I can't do it," she said, speaking to herself.

She clenched her fists, recalling that Ginny would be shouting at her to stop being a prude. Ron and Harry would be telling her that it was madness and that she'd couldn't possibly be expected to shag Death Eaters and, anyway, she was their Hermione. No one would want to have sex with her to begin with.

Hermione pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes when they prickled at the memories of her friends. She had no guarantee that they would ever wake up. Ginny was gone forever, but the girl would surely have jumped at the chance to sleep around without having anyone be able to tell her she was a tart because it was all for a good cause.

Peering at the list Dumbledore had given her of the men he thought would be most helpful to her cause, Hermione hated the niggling curiosity she had to see who was on it. With no one there to judge her for indulging her curiosity, she reached for it and unrolled it slowly.

_Sirius Black_

_Remus Lupin_

_Charles Weasley_

_Severus Snape_

_Draco Malfoy_

_Thorfinn Rowle_

_Antonin Dolohov_

_Rabastan Lestrange_

Eight names. Eight wizards. Hermione frowned that more than half of them were Death Eaters before realising he'd countered Snape as an Order member, rather than a Death Eater, bringing the count to four and four.

"But they're all…" she frowned, tracing her finger over the parchment and trying to understand why he'd chosen these particular men. Draco, she would admit, made the most sense. He was her age and he'd never seemed very secure in his position as a Death Eater. He could be easily swayed and no matter that he'd always been a bit of a coward, he was a powerful wizard and he came from a powerful magical heritage. He would have untapped power reserves in his very blood that she could unlock and harness for the sake of the Order. His inclusion might not please her, but it made sense to her.

The others just confused her.

Charlie had come home from Romania when Ginny had been killed, but he had a lot of potential for one day marrying a pretty witch and furthering the Weasley bloodline. That chance would be ruined if he bonded with her for the sake of this harem.

And then it clicked.

Dumbledore had picked the men on the list, despite most of them being at least twenty years her senior, because they had limited prospects, relationship-wise.

Sirius, Lestrange, and Dolohov were all escaped Azkaban fugitives. Remus was a werewolf. Snape was… well, _Snape_. Rowle, before his involvement with the Death Eaters, had been a Quidditch superstar but if he was ever caught by the Aurors, he'd been thrown in prison; and Charlie was a Dragon Tamer who'd never showed much interest in witches when he could spend his life wrestling dragons. They were all in their prime, magically speaking, and they were all unlikely to ever marry – most of them would be lucky to even survive the war, if she was being completely honest with herself.

In that sense, Malfoy actually made no sense. He was young, he was powerful, certainly, but he was a coward and he was the last of his bloodline. In fact, most of them were. Remus had no siblings. Sirius's only brother had been killed. Rowle, she knew, had a sister who'd been in Fred and George's year, and a brother who'd been in her year at school, but she didn't know of any other Rowle family members who were still living. Lestrange had a married brother, but to her knowledge Rodolphus and Bellatrix had never conceived a child and they were surely getting to a point when doing so might be difficult and risky.

Hermione frowned, trying to find similarities and differences between Dumbledore's chosen participants. Surely Draco, Sirius, Remus and Snape would be better off not getting involved in this. They would one day want heirs of their own and if they were bound to her for this endeavour they would have to have them with her, or not at all.

It occurred to her that Snape likely never wanted children, given how much he loathed them. Remus, she knew, never wanted kids for fear of passing on his condition and fear of the ridicule such a child might face with a werewolf for a father. She knew little about Dolohov, Lestrange and Rowle. Did they not want children?

Did they not have pretty witches they'd prefer to fuck?

Hermione shook her head.

"This is madness," she muttered. "Dolohov tried to _kill_ me! He murdered Molly's brothers, Ron's uncles. What would Ron say to know I was considering fucking the wretched bastard for the sake of the Order? And Lestrange tortured Neville's parents into madness! What is Dumbledore thinking, inviting the two of them to the party? It'd be bad enough shagging Malfoy and Rowle, without adding known murders and sociopaths to the mix."

Hermione bit her lip as she considered the rest of the names on the list. The most appealing choices were, obviously, the Order members. Charlie, in particular, she wouldn't even mind shagging. He was handsome as sin and she'd always been partial to redheads – as evidenced by her interest in Ron, once upon a memory. Charlie was strong, he was very powerful, magically speaking, and he was funny, to boot. More than once since Ginny's death and Ron and Harry's loss of consciousness, Charlie had been the person whose shoulder she cried into.

She wouldn't mind shagging him, if she was completely honest with herself.

Sirius was another matter. The man was reckless, and he was wickedly funny and quick witted, and she rather enjoyed arguing with him, but they _always_ argued. He was Harry's Godfather, for Merlin's sake. She might've noticed how handsome and charming he was – because how could she not? – but she hadn't ever seriously considered anything sexual with the man. He was twenty years her senior and with James and Lily gone, Sirius was the closest thing Harry had to a father. Harry would surely never forgive her if she shagged him

Remus wasn't much better. Like Sirius, he was a father figure to Harry. The voice of reason to Sirius's recklessness and also handsome as the devil. His lycanthropy only made him all the more appealing in her eyes because all that animal magnetism spoke to her on a primal level she couldn't even describe.

If she had to shag them, she would do so. If they agreed. She knew Sirius would. She might've fudged the truth a little about the number of boys trying to put their hands up her skirt. More than once, when he was deep in his cups, Sirius had pulled her into his lap when no one else was around and he'd suggested that they'd be more comfortable in the privacy of his bedroom.

She'd always brushed it off as just him being drunk and lonely, but when she thought back to the way he'd watched her at Headquarters, waiting for her reaction, she got the feeling that not only had Dumbledore already approached him with the suggestion, but he _wanted_ to do it. And of course, he did. He'd be able to contribute more fully to helping the Order. Like Malfoy, he also came from a powerful and pure magical bloodline and he would have magic reserves inside him untapped and just brimming with the need to break free.

In fact, she supposed that Charlie, Lestrange, Dolohov and Rowle would also have that in their favour, purebloods as they all were.

Hermione ran and hand through her tangled curls as she considered the other names on her list. Death Eaters aside, there was one name that unnerved her entirely.

Severus Snape.

Her Potions teacher. Her Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher.

She could get by the notion of Remus having been her teacher because that had been years ago and since then he'd become a friend. He was well-read and funny and charming, and every now and then, when the moon was almost full, he'd give her a look so hot it usually dampened her knickers.

But Snape was different.

Professor Snape had been her teacher up until just over eight months ago. Her least favourite teacher, in fact – aside from Umbridge and Trelawney. He was a person who'd held authority over her and someone who'd been impossibly cruel to her on more than one occasion. His hooked nose and his greasy hair certainly didn't make him an attractive option, and to make matters worse, he was dirk tongued, cruel, and a downright bastard. Even thinking about snogging him made her feel stupid and he would undoubtedly be as unkind in private as he'd always been in public. Given that he'd probably be as uncomfortable as her, she imagined that would be a very awkward attempt at seeing this idea through and she shook her head.

She couldn't do it. Not with Snape. He was so… mean. Taking her clothes off in front of him would be a form of torture and she doubted he'd be thrilled to take his off in front of her, either. What would Harry say if he could see her, thinking about undressing Snape?

Hermione snorted to herself.

The Greasy Git of the Dungeons? Fucking her? Yeah, right.

Hermione sighed, pursing her lips and wondering if she could go through with it. She didn't think she could do it. She'd admit that she might've overreacted at the sight of Rowle and Malfoy, not to mention Dolohov – who was at least twenty-five or thirty years older than her and who'd once tried to _murder_ her. But this was a big ask. She would have to have sex with each of these men on Dumbledore's list. She would have to take off her clothes in front of them. She'd have to kiss them and touch them and let them fondle her breasts and touch the place between her legs.

Picking up the book Dumbledore had given her on harems, Hermione opened it once more, trying to find the answer to why he would ask this of her. Trying to make rhyme or reason of what would drive him to think this might actually work. Sure, it might link them all to her, rather than letting the Death Eaters continue to be loyal to Voldemort, but there had to be more to it. She knew that doing this would mean she could harvest the energy created by sex, and leech their magical power. It wouldn't drain them or weaken them, from what she understood of the process. She wasn't stealing the power in the sense of taking something and giving nothing back.

The exchange was more like draining pus from a wound, if she was honest. Every magical being had magical reserves within them. They were usually left untapped unless things grew particularly dire. Should one fall ill, the reserves helped heal and sustain them. Should they be in a fierce duel or perform extremely complex magic, they might deplete the stores. But as with regular energy within the body, the reserves could be drained and then would replete themselves over time. If she were to perform the ritual, she would harvest the energy in those reserves and store it within herself – something exclusive to a witch's power, she'd read, and the reserves within each wizard would replete. When enough magical power had been stored within her, she would be able to harness it all and unleash it for whatever purpose she saw fit.

Hermione wondered what Dumbledore wanted her to do with it. She couldn't fight Voldemort and win. That was Harry's destiny. Maybe he hoped she would be able to heal Harry and Ron – to revive them and let Harry get on with stopping Voldemort and ending the war. Maybe he had some other goal in mind he'd meant to share with her before she'd run off in a huff.

Sighing, Hermione decided it would be best to gain a full and proper understanding of just what she would have to do before she even thought about going back to face them all. Settling back on the couch, Hermione sunk into her book once more.


	3. Chapter 3

"You reckon she'll do it?" Thorfinn Rowle asked of his fellow Death Eaters as they all sat around the table in the safe-house, drinking whiskey.

"No," Draco Malfoy scoffed. "Why would she? _You_ tried to kill her," he pointed at Antonin Dolohov. " _You_ were mercilessly cruel to her for six years as her professor," he pointed at Snape. "You, Rowle, were a git to her right up until you left school. Lestrange tortured one of her best friend's parents into madness, and I was a right sod to her all through school. The last thing she'd want to do would be shag any of us. Especially you lot. Bunch of old fuckers."

"Thirty-seven really isn't that old," Rabastan Lestrange rolled his eyes.

"Forty-nine is," Draco fired back, slanting a glance at Dolohov.

"Why her, Snape?" Dolohov asked, frowning. "She is powerful, yes. To have survived my curse in the Department of Mysteries, she _must_ be powerful. But why her? Are there none among the Order that would be better suited. Draco's cousin, say?"

"Tonks isn't powerful enough. Gifted, yes. But too much of her magical energy escapes through her metamorphing. She would not be able to effectively harvest and store the magical energy for a long enough period that it could be put to use."

"What use does Dumbledore have for storing it to begin with?" Lestrange wanted to know.

"He hasn't shared that with me."

"He expects us all to fuck her?" Rowle raised his eyebrows. "Along with who from the Order?"

"Black, Lupin and one of the Weasley's, I believe," Severus sighed.

"Charlie, probably," Thorfinn said, frowning. "You're fine with… sharing her?"

All five wizards glanced at each other uncomfortably.

"Wouldn't be the first time any of us have shared a witch," Rabastan muttered, looking away as he took a long pull on his pint.

"Aye, but that was at a revel with nameless bitches we never see again," Thorfinn grunted. "We'd have to see this one again. Repeatedly. We'd be _bound_ to her until she dies, or something terrible enough happens to sever the connection, or some shit."

"She won't do it," Draco insisted.

"What makes you so sure?" Antonin asked the young wizard curiously. "Last year I'd never have said anyone in this room would be considering it, either. But here we are. All of us thinking about fucking that little mudblood and hoodwinking the Dark Lord we've all sworn in blood and magic to serve. You think she is so different that she is incapable of changing her mind?"

"She's too proud," Draco shrugged. "She's the type of girl who gets up in arms about House Elf rights."

"House Elves don't have rights," Lestrange frowned, confused.

"Yes, that seems to be what she takes issue with," Draco drawled, smirking before he took a long draw on his whiskey glass while the wizards around the table all shared a look of horrified bafflement at such a notion.

"Urgh," Rabastan muttered.

"She's feisty, that one," Thorfinn said. "Even when she was just twelve and I was taking the piss and picking on her, she was feisty. She never backed down or walked away without a fight. She'd be a riot in the sack."

"All the more reason she won't want to fuck any of us," Draco shrugged.

"Because I taunted her?" Rowle frowned.

"Because she's feisty enough to tell Dumbledore to fuck off with the entire idea," Draco corrected. "You saw her back there before she ran. She's not some meek little thing to roll over and present her hindquarters to all of us just because some old git asks her nicely."

"Well, that will just fuck us right over, won't it?" Rabastan huffed. "If the Dark Lord knew we were here, we'd all be dead."

"He won't find out if we all keep our mouths shut," Antonin mused, glaring around the room. "I'm a little more concerned by what the brethren would think if they knew we were planning to fuck a mudblood. Repeatedly."

"Well, I doubt any of us plans on telling them," Thorfinn said before skolling his glass of whiskey and pouring them all another round. "We'll just do our bit, fuck her when we have to, and be on our way."

Snape's mouth twisted like he thought things wouldn't be that easy.

"It doesn't work like that, Finn," Antonin spoke up quietly, his Russian accented voice soft in the silence that pervaded the group as they all drank, trying to ignore the niggling thoughts filling their minds of betrayal to their Dark Lord, their families, their blood, and their birthrights.

"What do you mean?" Thorfinn asked, looking over at the Russian.

"As you said, we will be bound to her," Antonin said.

"What? Like, we'd have to bloody live with her or something?" Rowle asked, frowning. "Count me out."

Antonin shook his head, tracing the tips of his fingers along the bristles of his moustache and looking thoughtful.

"Being bound to a witch like that, if it's in the way I think Dumbledore intends, has nothing to do with being forced to live with her or forced to fall for her… But it does… something."

"You've done something like this before?" Snape asked sharply.

Dolohov nodded.

"During the first uprising, before the Dark Lord's fall. Before Azkaban. He tried it with Alecto…" Dolohov answered quietly. "It's why she's so unhinged and so obsessive. The ritual to link us all to the witch in question is a perversion of a marriage bond. Not with any call for fidelity or trading of names or blood… but it links us to her, and to each other, nonetheless."

"If you're linked to Carrow, how can you link to Granger?" Draco asked, frowning.

"The link to Carrow severed when we were all rounded up and sent off to Azakban," Dolohov shrugged. "Couldn't get out of the cells. Couldn't access our own magic with the Dementors keeping us all out of our heads. The bond has to be renewed, often, to maintain it, otherwise everyone involved starts to crack."

"That's why you're a crazy bastard?" Rabastan asked, raising one eyebrow.

Dolohov flipped him the forks.

"The type of magic involved in this is… addictive," he said quietly after sipping his whiskey, a faraway look in his eyes. "It makes the sex better, and the transference of magic like that is… intoxicating."

"How does it work?" Thorfinn asked. "What? She drains it like some kind of magic-vampire?"

"Something like that," Antonin nodded. "But you have to be willing to give it to her. If you don't _want_ to let her into your magical stores – if you don't push your magic at her while you fuck her – it doesn't work. Just makes it feel like regular sex. But if you do…"

He trailed off, shaking his head a little, a slow smile curling across his face.

"Addictive," he muttered. "The ritual unlocks your reserves, and she draws on them. It leaves you feeling weak after – but in the way it feels after a really hard fuck. It makes you feel closer. To the witch. To the others engaged in the ritual. By the end of this, if Granger goes through with it, we'll all be half in love with her, and closer than brothers or best mates, ourselves."

"You can't stand Carrow," Snape drawled. "How's that work?"

"That connection was severed," Antonin repeated. "It… the severance fucks you up. It hurts. Hurts worse than the most painful and delirious detox after a prolonged addiction. Alecto is still obsessed with me because she still craves it. For her, the link is still alive, even if it's faint and tattered. She hung onto it too tight after I was locked up – I'm the only one still living from the group who originally bound themselves to her on the Dark Lord's orders. It's why she clings so hard. She wants it back, but it can't come back. Not without the others."

"Why are you here, old man?" Thorfinn asked, raising an eyebrow at him. "You look… wistful… when you talk about it."

Dolohov's lips twisted self-deprecatingly.

"I am wistful," he admitted. "It felt good, being linked like that. It was nice fucking that hard, without worrying about hurting anyone's feelings, or needing to bother with seduction and cheap pick up lines and all the bullshit. And like I said, it's addictive. There's nothing like the feel of having a witch drain your magic until you're not sure you'll be able to even lift your arm to cast a spell. Your body fights when she takes that much, you know? But the more frequently you empty those reserves and the harder your system has to work to overcome the weakness that follows it, the stronger you get. You think I'm this powerful by some miracle of birth?"

The others eyed him like he was mad, but if Dolohov cared, it didn't show.

"You want that again," Rabastan said finally. "Like an addict reaching for the needle one more time."

Dolohov didn't bother looking guilty or contrite. Instead he smirked.

"If I can feel that again… If I can taste that little death on the back of my tongue when I'm seconds from passing out as all my magic and my come shoots into a pretty little witch, you bet your bloody arse I'm reaching for that needle one more time," he said.

"I don't think I _want_ to be a junkie, hooked on a bit of Mudblood pussy," Draco said quietly, frowning.

"Do you want to stay under the Dark Lord's thumb, instead?" Dolohov asked. "I've seen the way you squirm under it, _ditya_. With Potter still caught in the throes of that curse, there is no end in sight that isn't grisly and doesn't end in the Dark Lord ruling the world."

"But we fight for him," Draco protested. "If he wins, then so do we."

"Does it feel like winning when you're writhing under the Cruciatus curse because he's lost his fucking mind?" Rabastan wanted to know. "Does it feel like winning when your mother and father are screaming, and you're too broken to lift a bloody finger and your throat's too raw from your own wretched screams?"

"Then why the fuck did we sign up with this arsehole?" Draco asked. "If you all hate it so much, and if this is how he treats us – his loyal followers – what kind of stupid are we to willingly play with him?"

"He didn't used to be this way," Dolohov said. "When I took the mark, he was cunning and charming and sane. Still twisted, but aren't we all a little twisted?"

"Then what changed?" Draco said. "Why is he like this, now?"

"Potter," Snape answered quietly. "The curse that rebounded when he tried to murder Potter as an infant did something terrible to the Dark Lord. His soul is fragmented and broken. He is so inhumane because his humanity is scattered in pieces and withering more with each passing day."

"And the answer is that we all tie ourselves like junkies to Granger, hooked on shooting her full of come?" Thorfinn asked.

"Got a better option?" Rabastan raised one eyebrow.

Thorfinn shrugged. "Not one that involves free sex."

"Oh, it's not free, _ditya_ ," Dolohov shook his head, chuckling. "You will pay for the act of fucking her every time you do it. The ritual plays with your magic. Plays with your head. She'll play with your head and your heart and you dick until you don't know if you love her more than life, or if you want to wrap your hands around her throat and squeeze until she stops kicking. Look at me. Do I look like a man who hasn't paid the price of his choices? Does Allie?"

"What did the Dark Lord have in mind when he instigated this with her?" Snape asked, frowning.

"The ability to store the magic the way this ritual does is given only to witches," Dolohov shrugged. "It's got something to do with the womb and their ability to create life. We wizards can't do it. We can only provide the bit of something needed to ignite it. _But_ once the magic is stored within her, it can be used in whatever way she sees fit. She can use it to perform fantastic magical feats, or she can funnel it into whatever she likes."

"The Dark Lord had her funnel it all into him?" Rowle guessed.

Dolohov nodded. "I don't know how. He's not supposed to be able to store it – and maybe he didn't. Maybe he needed it for some feat and could channel it long enough to wield it for himself before it could dissipate. Bit like the temporary ingestion of a Strength potion, I suppose. Use it while it's in your system, or it's wasted when it wears off."

"You think Dumbledore will use it to have Granger revive Potter and Weasley?" Draco asked. "You all want to give her your magic and your bloody time, and a vow that links you to her for life, for the sake of waking up Potter?"

They all shared significant glances and Draco narrowed his eyes on them all, trying to understand what they were thinking.

" _If_ that is Dumbledore's plan, Potter will wake and will fulfil his destiny to face off with the Dark Lord. It's the only way the war will be won for the Order," Snape said quietly.

"Is that what we want, now?" Draco asked. "The Dark Lord will slaughter us all if we're caught working with the Order. And that's exactly what this would be."

"The Dark Lord is unhinged," Dolohov said quietly. "He will, eventually, turn on all of us. I've seen it beginning before. He keeps all of us only long enough to serve his purpose. If we all grow too powerful, or if we all seek too much for ourselves, he will kill us all off, one by one. It was no accident that Allie and I were the only ones left alive from the harem he insisted on. One by one, the others grew too powerful and didn't know how to sit on their power and maintain their loyalty to him. Should he win, he will slowly kill us all off, paving the way for more malleable subjects too afraid to challenge or threaten his rule. Potter _must_ kill him."

"And if we're caught before Potter wakes?"

"We won't be," Thorfinn said stoically.

"Besides," Rabastan chimed in. " _When_ the Dark Lord is defeated and they're rounding all of the Death Eaters up, it will certainly be in our favour to have Dumbledore vouching for us as having sacrificed blood and magic to the Order's cause. By then, I expect Granger will be fond enough of all of us that we would all avoid prison."

Draco's eyes widened, realising they were all being entirely too cunning for their own good, thinking only about how to survive and to improve things for themselves in a way that meant less time writhing on the floor of the Manor. He couldn't say he blamed them. He'd rather fuck Granger than spend another night fearing for his life. And so, he bit his tongue on his questions about what would happen when the war was over, and they all avoided Azkaban if they were still all magically bound to the frizzy haired little mudblood.


	4. Chapter 4

# Chapter Four

Sirius Black paced across the kitchen of Grimmauld Place. Hermione still hadn’t returned. She’d run for it when they’d ambushed her with the idea of them all shagging her, and she hadn’t come back. Neville and Luna had returned from their rendezvous spot with no news of the witch. For two days now, she had been gone and Sirius was beginning to think she wasn’t going to ever come back.

“You’re pacing again,” Remus commented, watching him over the rim of his teacup as he strode back and forth.

“She’s never coming back, Moony,” Sirius said.

“I can’t say I blame her,” Remus muttered. “Dumbledore went about asking this of her all the wrong way. He should’ve spoken to her about it in private, like he did with us. Stuffing a book into her hands on the subject before putting the request to her in front of the entire Order was foolish.”

“He wanted to put her on the spot and make her feel pressured enough to agree. He thought her pride would keep her from looking like she wasn’t willing to do whatever it took to bring the devil down.”

“He underestimated her willingness to tell all of us to fuck off,” Remus agreed.

“She needs to do it, Remus,” Sirius muttered. “I _need_ to do this so we can wake Harry up.”

“I know, Pads,” Remus sighed. “I know you want to help, and I know you hate feeling impotent in the face of his continued suffering. But this is a lot to ask of a nineteen year old girl. I don’t think she’s had a lot of experience with men, aside from her relationship with Krum. To be asked to shag eight different men – five of them known Death Eaters – is a lot. Dumbledore stupidly ambushed her, having all of them here. She’d have had enough trouble reconciling shagging the two of us, old boy. We’re both twice her current age, after all. I used to be her teacher. You’re the closest thing to her best friend’s Dad. Can you blame her for needing time to mull it over? And that’s just us. He also wants her to fuck Malfoy, Lestrange, Dolohov, Rowle, and Snape. A git, a torturer, a murderer, an arsonist, and a bloody sadist. These are men who’ve been nothing but horrid to her for all the time she’s been a part of the magical world. Dumbledore’s mad for thinking she’d go for this. Especially after broaching it in front of Molly and Arthur.”

Sirius nodded distractedly, continuing to pace. He’d been more than passingly attracted to the clever little witch since before he’d had any business noticing her brilliance, if he was being completely honest with himself, but she’d always turned down his advances when she’d come of age and he’d allowed himself to make a pass at her. No matter the times he’d pulled her into his lap and tried to talk her out of her knickers, she’d always told him he’d had too much to drink and that he needed to go to bed. Alone.

She was a good girl. A little too moral for anyone’s good. A bloody bookish swot. Slanting a glance at Remus, Sirius smirked, noting the similarities between the werewolf and the young witch. He almost laughed, recalling that Remus tended to say the same things whenever Sirius got drunk enough and lonely enough to make passes at him, too. The git.

Just as he turned, pacing the length of the kitchen once more, a bright white otter patronus swam through the wall and straight to Remus. It glittered for a moment, frolicking like the air it swam through was waves and Sirius eyed it curiously. Remus blinked.

“It’s Hermione’s patronus,” he said.

“Remus?” the voice of the witch in question filled the room, emanating from the patronus. “Could you please meet with me? Alone? At the place I told you about… that time in third year.”

Sirius frowned at the patronus when it paddled in a circle for another long moment before it dissipated.

“What place?” he asked Moony. “What time is she talking about?”

Remus was frowning deeply, staring at the spot where the Patronus had been.

“It was a long time ago,” Remus frowned. “I assume she means the place she told me about during her exam in her third year. One of the questions on the exam was that she had to describe her favourite place in the world outside of Hogwarts.”

“Bit of a weird exam question, Moony. Where is it?” Sirius asked.

“I was trying to get a feel of Harry without telling him who I was to James and Lily, yet. And you can’t come with me, Pads,” he said. “You heard her. She wants to meet with me alone.”

“Why?” Sirius asked.

“I don’t know,” Remus shrugged. “I suppose she trusts me or wants my advice. I’m prone to giving it to her whenever she has questions.”

“Why doesn’t she just come home?” Sirius asked, and he knew he sounded whiny, and like a clingy twat, but blast it all he _had_ to help Harry. He _needed_ to convince the bushy haired little chit to agree to Dumbledore’s plan.

He _wanted_ to fuck her, confound it all!

“Probably because she knows you’ll be here, trying to seduce her into agreeing,” Remus said.

“I’m coming with you,” Sirius said stubbornly.

“You’re not,” Remus argued, getting to his feet. “You don’t know the way, and I’m not going to tell you. This needs to be her decision, Padfoot. Can’t you see that? If we try to push her into it, we’re no better than rapists.”

Sirius reeled back, frowning fiercely at his best friend. He hadn’t thought about it like that.

“Right,” he muttered. “I’m… I’m going to go and check on Harry. Be careful. Bring her home, Moony.”

With that said, he hurried out of the room, leaving Remus to sigh heavily before he collected his coat and made for the door, intending to apparate.

**~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~O~**

Hermione looked up when her wards rippled with the arrival of who she hoped was Remus. Peeking out the kitchen window of the cottage, she searched the woods for the werewolf. She hadn’t been sure he would remember where she meant when she’d sent him her patronus, being purposely vague, knowing he would likely be with the others. She hadn’t wanted to see them.

She didn’t want Dumbledore to know where she was. She didn’t want to be pushed into this before she had all the facts and could decide for herself.

Spying the sandy haired werewolf when he strolled out of the woods along the faint deer trail that led toward the front yard, Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket. She knew he’d be able to see the house through the wards, his lycanthropy allowing him that much, but he wouldn’t be able to cross them without her invitation.

Crossing to the front door, Hermione peered down at herself, frowning a little. She’d been inside the cottage for two days now. When she hadn’t been researching the ritual, pouring through the book from cover to cover, and hadn’t been agonizingly gazing at the list of names Dumbledore had given her weighing up the pros and cons of each wizard, she’d spent every other minute nervously and obsessively trying to tidy the cottage. It was her inheritance, after all, and she didn’t want to just let it fall to ruin.

She’d showered, and she’d used freshening charms on her clothes, but having run out of Grimmauld Place without her beaded bag or any supplies but the few potion phials, a decoy detonator, and instant darkness powder bombs that she’d had in her pockets, in addition to her wand, the tome from Dumbledore, and the list, she had no supplies. She’d managed to make do for meals based on what few canned food items she’d found stored in the back of the pantry in the cottage, but she knew she would soon need to return to Grimmauld Place, if only for fresh knickers to put on.

Crossing the threshold of the cottage and descending the front steps, Hermione could tell the minute Remus spotted her through the wards. He was alone, as she’d asked him to be, and he looked a little anxious and like he hadn’t been sleeping very well. She wondered what phase the moon was in, before recalling that everyone at Headquarters was probably worried for her wellbeing.

After all, the last time she and her friends had disappeared, Ginny had died, and Harry and Ron had been cursed and left comatose. They had ambushed her, and she’d had to run right past several Death Eaters to even get here. They were probably sick with worry that she’d been captured or killed.

“Remus?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t bother raising his wand, since the wards would repel his spells if he fired any.

“What answer did Hermione Granger give on question ten of her final exam in my class?” Remus asked her seriously.

Hermione wracked her brain to recall what question ten had been. Was it the description of the most fearsome beast of the magical world, in her opinion?

“Um…I think I wrote wizards, for that one,” she said.

Remus narrowed his eyes a little, awaiting her security question.

“What did Remus Lupin and I discuss last week in the library?” she asked, holding his gaze, her wand trained on him.

“Alternatives to the Wolfsbane Potion that would have fewer unpleasant side-effects that were being explored in China,” Remus answered.

Hermione sighed with relief, fishing a scrap of paper out of her pocket and reaching across the wards to hand it to Remus. He read it quickly, memorizing the address and the name of the cottage before handing it back to her and taking her hand. When she tugged him across the wards, Remus smiled gently at her, his eyes trailing over her and no doubt noting the frizzy state of her hair and the frazzled state of her person.

She knew she looked a mess. She’d barely slept, unable to shut off her brain as she turned over the proposal in her mind a million times, trying to look at it from every angle.

“You’ve been busy,” he said, clearly noting the fact that the garden had been freshly weeded and that the rest of the house and the yard had been tidied as well as she could manage.

Hermione nodded.

“You’re alone?” she asked.

Remus nodded his head. “Everyone’s been worried about you, Hermione,” he said quietly.

“I know,” she sighed. “But I can’t… if I tried to think about this there… they’d just…”

“Guilt you into it before you’d had time to mull it over properly,” Remus finished for her. “Yes, I believe that was Dumbledore’s intention when he ambushed you with it during the meeting. I tried to warn him against it, but he would not be deterred, hoping you would be like Harry and would leap at the chance to do anything you could to improve our chance of winning, no matter the cost to your soul, your body, or your mind.”

Hermione sighed, closing her eyes at how reasonable Remus sounded, rather than sounding like he was upset with her or judging her for wanting to actually consider this properly before just diving in.

“Will you come inside?” she asked. “I want to run my research past you, if you don’t mind?”

He nodded, letting her lead him inside the cottage without complaint. His eyes traced over the interior as they entered, and Hermione could tell he was noting that she’d been anxiously and frantically cleaning every inch of it until every surface shone and the floors gleamed.

“Stressed, _gealai_?” he asked, smiling gently.

“Yes,” Hermione admitted. “I’ve read that book Dumbledore gave me a hundred times, and I’ve made lists about each of the people on his list, and lists of questions I need answered before I can make my decision, and a hundred other things that I thought might be important.”

“You know you don’t have to do this, don’t you, Hermione?” Remus asked gently, squeezing her hand lightly and giving her a worried smile.

She nodded her head.

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” she said. “But I kind of do. I mean. If I don’t, Harry and Ron might never recover. If I don’t, that _wretch_ will win. If I don’t, Ginny’s sacrifice will have been for nothing.”

“Hermione, this decision needs to be made on emotions other than guilt,” Remus told her sternly, reaching to grip both of her shoulders and forcing her to hold his gaze. “It’s got to be about you. You will be the one expected to share your body and your magic with eight different men. You will be the one harvesting their magical energy. You will be the one whose body will suffer the effects of doing so. And there will be side-effects, Hermione. Harvesting someone else’s energy even in small doses such as those transferred during regular sex between non-bonded partners is a bit like getting high. You know that. This will be the equivalent of drinking an entire cauldron full of Giggle Water, _gealai._ It will make you dizzy. It will fill you to bursting with power. It will alter the way you look. That much magic stored in a single vessel requires strength. You will feel like you have no control over all the excess until your body adapts. You will suffer bouts of uncontrolled magic, just as you did as a child.”

“I’ll have to shag you,” Hermione blurted, her eyes tracing over his handsome face.

Remus blinked, his cheeks turning pink.

“Well, yes,” he said. “That too.”

“I confess the part I’m having the most trouble with is the notion of getting naked with the eight of you,” she admitted quietly. “I know all the theory about the effects, and the dangers, and the perks, and everything else. And I just keep circling back to the fact that Dolohov tried to _murder_ me. He did this.”

She lifted her shirt, to Remus’s apparent surprise, revealing the starburst of purple flames on her chest right at the base of her sternum between her breasts.

“He almost killed me,” she said. “How am I supposed to let him touch me? To let him… see me naked? How am I going to be safe in the presence of the Death Eaters on Dumbledore’s list? How am I supposed to look you, or Sirius, or Charlie in the eye again when you’ll see me without my clothes, and you’ll see the faces I make when I’m… and, Merlin, how am I ever going to look at _Molly_ again? You know she’s holding out hope that Ron will wake up and we’ll just be like we were. How am I supposed to tell her that though we hadn’t told everyone back at headquarters, Ron and I had broken things off while we were on the run, before he was cursed? And worse, how will I ever show my face again if I _don’t_ do this, and Harry and Ron follow Ginny to the grave just because I’m too cowardly and too self-conscious to say yes?”

She knew she was babbling, but she simply couldn't stop as the words came rushing out. She had been going mad with all the thoughts buzzing through her mind and she couldn't take it anymore.

Remus smiled at her gently, obviously not wanting to invalidate her worries, but amused by her babble, nonetheless.

"Hermione?" He asked quietly, squeezing her shoulders gently to get her attention just as she opened her mouth to blurt out more of her fears.

"Sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes and fighting the urge she had to cry out of sheer exhaustion.

"You don’t need to apologise, _gealai_ ," he said. "You're stressed and your scared. It's natural. But before we continue, there is one thing I want you to know. Are you listening?"

Hermione breathed in slowly, holding her breath for a long minute before breathing out. She met Remus's warm eyes, ready to let him speak.

"You have nothing to fear about being naked with us, Hermione. Any of us. No, don't roll your eyes. Listen to me." He said sternly. "What was said during the meeting was true, Hermione. You are... intimidating. The twins weren't kidding that making a pass at you takes a little liquid courage."

"Don't lie to me, please Remus," Hermione said. "I asked to see you while I'm freaking out about this because you've always been honest with me."

Remus smiled gently and nodded toward the couch across the room. "Let's sit, shall we?"

"I...yes," Hermione nodded. "Do you want a cup of tea? I've no milk, I'm afraid, and the leaves are a bit old and stale, but it's all I've got until I can restock the pantry here."

"Sure," Remus said. "That'd be lovely."

Hermione pulled out of his grip, hurrying over to put some water and some tea leaves into the chipped old pot she'd found in the back of the pantry. She tapped it with her wand when she'd carried it to the coffee table, causing steam to emit from the spout as the water instantly boiled.

Remus waited patiently while she fixed their tea, seeming to sense she needed to focus on one task at a time when she was in such a flap.

"Now," he said when his tea was made. "I wasn't lying about you being intimidating, _gaelai_."

She rolled her eyes.

"Because this frizzy mess and the ink stains on my fingers are so alluring?" She scoffed.

“Hermione,” Remus said quietly, his large hands wrapped around his teacup, but his hazel eyes fixed upon her. “We are, none of us, perfect. Your hair is incredibly curly, it’s true. All the better for fisting, don’t you think?”

“Are you werewolf-joking me, right now? Hermione asked seriously, her eyebrows lifting.

“And your hands are soft and small, your fingers stained with ink. All the better for tracing old scars, wouldn’t you say?” he went on, his mouth twitching at the corners as he lifted one hand from his cup to trail a blunt-nailed finger down the scars across his face.

“Remus,” Hermione sighed, shaking her head at him.

“And your body is petite and feminine,” he went on. “All the better for carrying about and pinning to walls without us older chaps straining our backs, wouldn’t you say?”

Hermione could quite help it. She snorted. Laughter bubbled free of her when Remus opened his mouth, obviously intending to go on.

“Stop,” she told him, shaking her head and laughing when his eyes settled on her lips.

“Have I made my point?” he asked.

“No,” Hermione said. “But you’ve made your joke. Saying things like this is a bad parody of Little Red Riding Hood but doesn’t negate my body image issues or my nervousness, Remus.”

“Does knowing that of the selected men on Dumbledore’s list, there isn’t one among us who doesn’t bear wretched scars we wouldn’t just as soon keep covered from prying eyes?” Remus offered.

“All?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. “Or just you?”

“All,” Remus answered softly. “Do not make the mistake of thinking this life has been easy on any of us, Hermione. My scars are extensive, self-inflicted and hideous to behold beneath these clothes.” He plucked at his soft woollen cardigan indicatively. “Sirius bears many to match from years spent by my side attempting to control me when the moon is full and the madness within comes out to play. He bears others from attacking himself and harming himself in his cell in Azkaban. Charlie is a Dragon Tamer by occupation and his body is riddled with tattoos and burns the likes of which you can hardly fathom, right now.”

“And the Death Eaters?” Hermione challenged, raising her eyebrows at him.

“As I’m sure you know from your friendship with Harry, Draco Malfoy bears the long slices scarred into his chest and stomach from Harry’s reckless use of the Sectumsempra curse,” Remus answered coolly. “Severus bears heinous scars from an abusive childhood and a depressed adolescence. Thorfinn Rowle bears terrible Fiendfyre burns from an episode of uncontrolled magic when he was a teenager and he learned his mother had been murdered by muggles. Antonin Dolohov carries the scars of a thousand hexes thrown his way and a lifetime of service to a megalomaniac. Lestrange is the overlooked younger brother of a man mad enough and cruel enough to outshine Bellatrix in cruelty and sadism.”

Hermione’s brow furrowed as Remus sipped some more of his tea before setting down his cup.

“As I said,” Remus offered softly. “We are, none of us, perfect.”

Hermione frowned, sitting back in her chair and regarding him for several long seconds of silence.

“How do you know all that?” she asked. “About Rowle, and Dolohov and Lestrange?”

“I was still a teacher when Rowle’s incident occurred. He learned of his mother’s murder during one of my lessons when I was still teaching at Hogwarts. He injured several of his fellow students and almost killed himself, the violent explosion of fire was so intense. As for Lestrange… well… once upon a time Rabastan Lestrange was best friends with Regulus Black. There was a time when Sirius, James, and I were very well acquainted with Rabastan, through Regulus. Reg told us more than once of the horrors Rabastan survived at his brother’s hand. His father’s, too. And later, his sister-in-law’s.”

“And Dolohov?” Hermione wanted to know.

Remus reached into the inside pocket of his cardigan and withdrew several files, resizing them quickly and handing them to her.

“Dolohov’s criminal record?” Hermione guessed, frowning.

“His incarceration papers, yes. They list any scars, tattoos, or other identifying features he bore when he escaped Azkaban. As you can see, he has not gone through life unscathed.”

Hermione scanned her eyes over them quickly, noting that there were several pictures of the different tattoos and scars he bore. The files on Lestrange, Sirius and Severus depicted the same things. Medical files evidently copied from the Hogwarts school records for Draco and Thorfinn were tucked into the pile as well.

“Nothing for you and Charlie?” Hermione asked.

“I rather thought I could simply show you mine, if you are so curious about them,” Remus offered quietly. “And Charlie has never been shy about wandering around the house at Grimmauld topless.”

Hermione nodded.

“You brought these knowing I would be in a flap about being naked with all of you?” Hermione asked.

“I brought them because I knew you would have questions,” Remus answered. “Truthfully, Hermione, you have little to fear about being naked with all of us. We are all a good couple of decades older than you, except Draco, Thorfinn, and Charlie. It is us who will likely be nervous and uncomfortable, naked before such a pretty young witch.”

“You’re not really helping assuage my fears, Remus,” Hermione admitted.

“I know,” he sighed, leaning back in his chair. “And it’s not my intention to discount your fears. Self-consciousness is typically something that can only be overcome with practice and relaxation.”

Hermione nodded.

“You had more questions?” Remus asked.

“Yes,” she admitted, sighing and running her hands through her frizzy hair. “Do you know what Dumbledore hopes to do with the magic he means to have me harvest?”

“Awaken Harry and Ron,” Remus told her.

“Wouldn’t group casting be more effective?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “But I believe that is still his intention. If you have harvested and stored plenty of magic from all of us, and then, say, he, you, and a number of the other powerful members of the Order, including Sirius and myself, were to group cast a number of powerful healing spells not used since the middle ages when covens were rampant, Harry and Ron might stand some chance of reviving.”

Hermione nodded slowly, having expected that.

“Are you really comfortable with this?” she asked Remus quietly after a long stretch of silence as she tried to gather her thoughts.

“Yes,” Remus said quietly.

“Have you read what’s involved?” Hermione asked. “Are you aware of what the ritual involves, and how it will tie you to me, and to the others? It’s a bastardised marriage ritual, Remus. Side-effects of breaking the bond involve insanity and even death, should any one of us be deprived of the others for too long. Even if you’re not sexually intimate with the others who are bound to me, you will grow closer to them, protective of them, invested in them. The book suggests that previously straight men have become bisexual when participating in this ritual. That even the most vehement enemies end up closer than lovers. Are you sure you want that?”

Remus met her gaze steadily.

“I’m sure, Hermione,” he said.

“But… don’t you want children, some day?” Hermione asked. “You’re not going to be able to have them with a wife if you’re still shagging me, you know? And it says if we stop, we’ll all begin to crack. Most end up unable to resist and cave to the craving of each other.”

“I have no interest in fathering any children, Hermione,” Remus said softly. “You know that.”

“What about Tonks?” Hermione asked seriously.

“What about her?” Remus asked, raising one eyebrow at her slowly.

“Remus, she’s in love with you,” Hermione said, exasperated.

“She is not,” Remus rolled his eyes.

“She is,” Hermione insisted. “She told me she is.”

“When?” Remus challenged.

“When she was patrolling up at Hogsmeade,” Hermione answered.

“In your sixth year?” Remus confirmed. “That was years ago, Hermione. She’s moved on, I can assure you.”

“What if she hasn’t?” Hermione asked.

Remus sighed and crossed one of his legs over the other before he answered.

“Frankly… too bad,” he said eventually, looking annoyed. “I’m not interested in Tonks, and I’m certainly not interested in marriage or reproduction with anyone. In that regard, I’m perhaps the perfect candidate for this little venture.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

“You have absolutely no urges to sire the next generation?” she confirmed.

“None,” he said.

“But you love kids,” Hermione protested. “I’ve seen you with Victoire, Remus. Your wolfish nature adores children.”

“Maybe so, but that doesn’t mean I want to sire any of my own. I’m a werewolf, Hermione,” he reminded her. “I won’t inflict myself or my curse on a child for no reason.”

“You’re a fool, is what you are,” Hermione corrected him, and Remus glared at her and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Do you have any other questions, or do you mean to continue insulting me until I’m no longer interested in participating in this venture?” Remus asked finally when they’d stared each other down for several tense minutes.

“Why are you doing this?” Hermione wanted to know. “What personal reasons do you have for wanting to do this?”

“You wish to know my motivations?” Remus frowned at her. “I want to help Harry and Ron, Hermione. I want them to wake up. I want Harry to defeat Vol… shit… You-Know-Who, and I want the world to be at peace, once more.”

“Harry’s a horcrux, Remus,” Hermione reminded the man quietly. “You know that. You know that if he wakes, he will still have to sacrifice himself to you-know-who in order to destroy the soul piece inside him.”

“And you know he won’t die in that coma – won’t surrender to the spell – as long as he remains a horcux,” Remus said in return. “Would you prefer to have Harry waste away slowly, forever trapped in between the land of the living and the realm of the dead, because of Tom Riddle’s soul piece, tethering him to this plane? He will not age, Hermione. He will not grow old, he will not die. He will simply be, forever, suspended in animation, unless his is revived. And without him, the Dark Lord will win the war, and the world as we know it will be plunged into chaos.”

“Not necessarily,” Hermione argued.

“Hermione, do you truly imagine that hard-core, dedicated Death Eaters like Antonin Dolohov and Rabastan Lestrange would turn on their master if they weren’t fearful of what will happen, should he win? Do you imagine devout blood purists like them would truly be considering repeatedly having sex with a muggleborn – binding themselves to a muggleborn – if the situation wasn’t dire?” Remus asked mildly. “I am willing to do whatever must be done to stop that man. And in this instance, it’s hardly much of an imposition given that all that is required of me is that I have sex with a pretty witch, with whom I already share a close friendship and affection. Why wouldn’t I do this?”

“Because it binds you to me for the rest of your life, Remus. And you’re a werewolf. For you, it will be a particularly long life. You know that. Barring having your heart ripped out and eaten by a fellow werewolf, you will live well into you five hundreds, or more. There is a very real chance that the binding properties of this ritual will mean that I will also live that long. That the others who partake in it might, as well. Don’t you understand that? You’re only thirty-eight, Remus. Thirty-eight out of five hundred or more years. Maybe you don’t want children now, but what about later? What about when you’re two hundred? Three hundred?”

“I’ll never want children,” Remus said.

“Bollocks, you won’t,” Hermione said. “What if _I_ want children, Remus?”

“Nothing would prevent you from having them,” Remus frowned at her. “I wasn’t aware you had aspirations of motherhood. You say you’ve seen me interacting with Victoire… well, I’ve seen you, too. You dislike children. You find them sticky and loud and cumbersome and think they’re a terrible distraction from good reading time.”

“Yes. _Now_ , I think of them that way,” Hermione rolled her eyes. “But if we do this thing and I might live to five hundred, I imagine that somewhere along the line I might suffer the indignity of a ticking biological clock.”

“The ritual would not prevent you from pursuing that, Hermione,” Remus pointed out.

Hermione scoffed. “With whom? Who would have me when I’m bound to eight men, five of them Death Eaters, three of them escaped prisoners?”

“What’s wrong with someone from among the eight?” Remus asked. “Just because I don’t want children, doesn’t mean the others don’t, either.”

“And what?” Hermione asked. “Have a child when I’m two hundred and enjoy the horrors of watching that child grow up and grow old and eventually die while I live on, soul-and-body-bound to a werewolf?”

Remus blinked. He looked momentarily hurt before he recovered himself.

“Would you prefer that I back out of the arrangement?” he offered quietly. “It isn’t necessary that I participate. Dumbledore simply thought that with the power of my lycanthtropy, the untapped magical stores would be of some use. But you’re right, my involvement will drastically alter the course of all of your lives, even more so than the ritual otherwise would. I should speak with Albus immediately, and offer up a replacement for myself… perhaps someone closer to you in age from your school…”

“Remus,” Hermione interrupted him quietly. “I didn’t say I want you to back out. I only asked if you were sure that this was what you wanted, and how some of the dynamics might work if we proceed.”

“But you’re right. My involvement further complicates an already complicated situation, it’s unnecessary that I be invol… mmmph!”

Hermione cut Remus’s rambling off by rising quickly to her feet, crossing the small distance between their chairs, and sliding onto his lap. She claimed his lips with her own to cease his words, testing the waters and figuring out if he might still be interested in pursuing this idea when he had her on his lap and kissing his lips. Reaching to tangle her fingers into his hair, Hermione kissed Remus softly, occupying his lips to prevent him from continuing to talk until he recovered from the shock of her sudden attack, and slid his hands onto her hips, pulling her closer.

His hands were gentle on her waist, his lips polite against hers, his touch soft and non-threatening. Hermione kissed him a little more forcefully, pressing her lips a little more insistently against his, parting them slightly to brush her tongue against the seam of his lips. Remus opened to her slowly, his tongue sliding out in increments to brush against hers, and Hermione used her nails to scratch lightly against his scalp, her insides humming with nerves and fluttering with butterflies until finally, she was snogging him soundly.

It occurred to her belatedly that she had straddled him in his chair in her bid to silence his self-deprecation, but when his hands on her hips guided her closer, pulling her to him snugly, Hermione could feel his arousal stirring beneath her. This was affecting him. It was affecting her too. She’d wondered once or twice over the years, particularly on moon days when he would give her a startlingly hot look, what it might be like to kiss Remus Lupin, but until now it’d always been a silly, passing fancy. Now, however, heat roared to life within her, making her dizzy, making her gasp. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, and she had no doubt his sensitive lycan hearing could pick it up with ease.

Merlin, how long had it been since she’d slept with anyone? How long had she been starved for sensation? She whimpered against his lips when Remus’s hands slid down her body to rest on her rear, his strong fingers kneading the flesh through the fabric of her jeans and encouraging her to roll her hips until a maddening rhythm twanged between them. Remus kissed her forcefully, holding nothing back, and Hermione sensed that he was more eager to do this – to participate in this ritual than she might’ve otherwise imagined.

Could she do it?

Could she shag him and the others and steal away their power for herself? Could she bring herself to be naked in front of these men, all of whom she had complex relationships with based on experience or enmity.

“Remus,” Hermione gasped, breaking their kiss when he moved to trail a burning line of desire down the side of her neck, lingering over the sweet spot under her ear until her hips bucked of their own accord, her body desperate for friction.

Remus’s only response was a low growl in the back of his throat that made her tingle all over as he nipped her neck just hard enough to smart before kissing away the sting.

“Oh god,” Hermine moaned, letting her head fall back as she surrendered to him.

Remus’s hands worked their way up her body and Hermione found herself lifting her arms up when he peeled up her shirt, pulling it off over her head quickly and leaving her in her bra. He growled again, pausing his kissing to admire her body and Hermione squirmed, trying to cover herself with her hands even though he couldn’t see anything important yet.

“You’re beautiful, Hermione,” Remus told her quietly when he lifted his gaze to meet her eyes and Hermione’s cheeks turned pink with embarrassment.

“Thank you,” she murmured, her eyes darting down to his lips again.

“Are you alright?” Remus asked.

“I… yes,” Hermione said. “I shouldn’t have just… jumped on you like that. You were saying something, and I was rude.”

“I’m certainly not complaining, _gaelai_ ,” he chuckled before an impish grin overtook his features. “I’m certainly not opposed to a test run to help you make up your mind about participating in the ritual if you’re so inclined, love.”

Hermione’s blush brightened.

“You… Are you sure?” she asked.

“If you are,” he nodded, his hands smoothing over her shoulders and down her back.

His touch was warm, and unbidden Hermione arched into him, sighing at the sweet sensation.

“It’s been a while,” she confessed, biting her lip and lifting her eyes to his once more, supposing that if she was really going to participate in the ritual, she would need to get a lot more comfortable with her own nudity, her own desires, and her own sexuality.

“For me as well,” Remus offered, nodding slowly and looking at her, waiting for her decision, putting no pressure on her to continue if she didn’t want to, even though she could feel the evidence of his rampant desire trapped in his jeans beneath her bottom.

Hermione bit her lip again, her eyes darting between both of his as she tried to figure out what she wanted, and whether this was a bad idea, and whether she was just stressed and overwrought and horny or if she wanted to ravish him right there.

“Should we go upstairs?” Hermione asked.

Remus’s mouth twitched and it occurred to her when a roguish grin spread across his face that he might be responsible and grown-up now, but there was still a marauder alive inside his soul.

“If you’d prefer,” he said. “I’m fine with the couch if it’s too far.”

“I… no, we should go to the bedroom,” Hermione said, leaning back out of his hold and climbing to her feet.

“You don’t have to do this, Hermione,” Remus reminded her when she ran her hands through her hair, butterflies rioting in her stomach.

“No, I want to,” she admitted. “I… it might be a terrible idea, and I still have questions before I agree to the ritual. But… it might provide some perspective if we…”

“Shag?” he offered, grinning at her obvious nervousness.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” Hermione asked.

“Forgive me, _gaelai_ ,” he smiled as Hermione headed for the stairs and he trailed after her. “You are still so very young and innocent. It’s refreshing.”

“Because I’m a nervous wreck?” Hermione asked.

“Yes,” he admitted with a chuckle and Hermione shot him a narrow-eyed glare over her shoulder. “Sorry, love. It’s just been a very long time since a woman got flustered at the thought of shagging me. The women I’ve bedded in the last decade have all been extremely comfortable in their sexuality and all but hurled themselves at me, demanding I meet their needs.”

“Merlin, Remus, what sort of women do you typically proposition?”

“Tarts,” he admitted with a shrug. “I never want more than a night or two, and wizarding society isn’t as up on the times as muggle society. Usually the women I’ve slept with have all been muggles, generally my age or older than me, often on the sour end of a divorce or some other tragedy they want to drink and shag out of their heads.”

“None of them blush and stammer and quake, then?” Hermione surmised.

“No, their usually quite drunk by the time they turn their attentions to me, and tend to be of the opinion that any warm body will do.”

“How delightful,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes and leading Remus into the master bedroom.

She had been sleeping in the bedroom she’d always used when she’d come here as a girl, but it was full of children’s toys and stuffed animals and she didn’t imagine either of them would be comfortable if she took him there for sex.

“We play the cards we’re dealt, Hermione,” Remus offered. “This isn’t your room, is it?”

“What gave it away?” Hermione asked.

“It doesn’t smell like you,” he shrugged his shoulders. “And the sheets are fresh, but the room smells of dust. It hasn’t been used in a long time.”

“It was my grandmother’s,” Hermione nodded. “She left me the property when she passed.”

“It’s very secluded,” Remus nodded.

“A perfect witch’s cottage out in the woods where nefarious plot can be hatched and wicked deeds go unnoticed,” Hermione replied. “Maybe if I agree to the ritual, I’ll convert it into my sex dungeon.”

“Which I’m sure you’ve always wanted,” Remus said, laughing at her sardony.

“Naturally,” Hermione agreed, turning to look at him and waiting for him to come closer.

“Still nervous?” he asked.

“More so than before,” she nodded, her throat tight but her hands itching. “May I?”

She indicated to his shirt, snagging hold of the hem and beginning to lift it slowly.

“Please,” Remus invited, nodding and smiling.

Hermione pulled the hem up, dragging his cardigan with it. Before she could get it up over his chest, Remus reached out and knotted his hands in her riotous curls, leaning down and guiding her face to his. He claimed her lips for another hot kiss and some of her butterflies dispersed in favour of a wave of lust.

Hermione kissed him until she was dizzy, breathing with him, moving with him, smoothing her hands over his torso where she’d lifted his shirt and tracing the sinewy muscle of his abdomen appreciatively.

“Told you,” Remus murmured huskily with they broke apart, both breathing heavily. “These curls are all the better for fisting.”

Hermione laughed in spite of herself as she peeled his shirt and cardigan off over his head, leaving him topless. She lowered her eyes to his wiry masculine frame and Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. She’d known that as a werewolf, he would have scars, but he was covered in them. Long gouges torn into golden flesh, bite marks littering his limbs, claw marks covering his skin.

“Oh, Remus, did you do all of this to yourself?” she asked softly, frowning as she reached for him again, smoothing her hands over the scarred flesh and noting that a few of the marks were still scabbed as though they’d happened at the last full moon.

“Most of them,” he nodded. “A few are from Sirius when I attack him or try to attack others, from back when we Marauders roamed under the full moon. This one is from James. He gored me with his antlers one night shortly before his wedding when I tried chasing after a muggle girl wandering after dark when the moon was full.”

He indicated to a scattering of puncture wounds and some tearing.

“Gored me and flung me twenty feet in the air to hear him tell it,” Remus said, chuckling a little as he smoothed a hand over the marks on his ribs. “And this one was Sirius, the night you and Harry used the Time Turner to rescue him.”

He indicated to a mark on his left forearm and another on his left shoulder.

“Do any of them still hurt?” Hermione asked, tracing her fingers over the marks he spoke of and noting that though they were grievous wounds inflicted by friends he loved like brothers, he spoke with fondness in his tone.

“This one still hurts,” he nodded, pointing out an angry red scar on his hip, tugging his jeans down a little to show it to her where claw marks bit into the V of muscle heading south.

“Did you do this one to yourself?” Hermione asked, frowning as she very gently traced the marks, noting that the spacing of the claws was too wide for her slender fingers to match.

“That was Greyback the last time I caught up with him. Happened while you and the boys were still hunting the horcruxes,” Remus told her.

“I didn’t know you’d run into him,” Hermione frowned.

“You’ve had other things on your mind, love,” Remus reminded her gently. “With the funeral, and the boys, and now this idea that Dumbledore’s cooked up, you’ve hardly had a chance to be filled in on an unfortunate run in with Greyback during one of my missions for the Order.”

“Recruiting for our side?” Hermione guessed.

Remus nodded, his eyes on her as she continued to trace the shapes of the scars littering his bare torso. He didn’t ask her about her own scars in return. The world hadn’t been kind to her, either, but compared to the scars Remus bore, they were nothing. When he leaned over and kissed her again, Hermione let him and reached up to kiss him back and she let him walk her backward across the room until she hit the bed.

Remus broke their kiss to raise one eyebrow at her before laughing wickedly and toppling her backward onto the mattress. Hermione landed with a huff and she looked up at Remus in surprise to find him grinning wolfishly before he followed her down, intent on having his way with her.


End file.
